The Lights in the Skies
by Tuff Destroyer
Summary: Percy Jackson lost against Kronos. Western Civilization has dwindled into a shell of its former self, with its inhabitants split up into nomadic groups. It is in this time that a young boy finds himself and becomes a man. This is his attempt to reclaim the lights in the skies.


Title: _The Lights in the Skies_

Author: Tuff Destroyer

Summary: Percy Jackson lost against Kronos. Western Civilization has dwindled into a shell of its former self, with its inhabitants split up into nomadic groups. It is in this time that a young boy finds himself and becomes a man. This is his attempt to reclaim the lights in the skies.

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><p><em>Chapter One<em>

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><p><strong>Part 1<strong>

You have to wonder how the moon used to look like. It seems like there used to be something majestic about it. But now it's just a dull orb in the sky, surrounded by other little dull orbs in the sky.

The days when Artemis rode her chariot across the day were gone. So were the days when Apollo would rush his own, and the days Zeus would thunder the sky, and the days Poseidon would send waves to the shores. It all ended when Kronos won the war. That was years ago, though.

Now, humans lived lives like something out of a zombie apocalypse movie, but without the zombies. Buildings had vines splattered across them, weaving green, leafy lines like a giant plant spider left them there. Cars replaced huge rocks as the most annoying obstacles to walk around. People split up into groups, living a hunter-gatherer life – they never stayed in one place for too long, because monsters and tax collectors would usually find them.

In one of these nomadic communities, currently located under what used to be Mount Rushmore (the faces of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Theodore Roosevelt, and Abraham Lincoln were now replaced with Hydra heads), there lived a boy fourteen years old. He was a little short compared to the other children of his age. Well, not a _little_ short. It was actually by a lot. There was a massive drop-off between Little Susie, who at the same age stood five feet tall, and the boy. It was like walking down the stairs, but one step was stealthily made an inch shorter than the other steps: you would never expect it, and you get that feeling of death – that feeling of your stomach clinging to your pelvic floor, and that extra inch just makes you wonder if the gods chose that day for you to roll to your death. Well, if you lined up all the fourteen-year-olds in the community and you started from the tallest, looking down the line laterally until the very last boy, you would get a similar jolt of panic. The boy stood four feet tall, putting him a full foot shorter than Little Susie.

So he got made fun of a lot. But sadly, he's the main character of this story. You'll hear more about woeful life. (Hint: his height won't be the only thing that's the source of his sadness.)

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><p><strong>Part 2<strong>

The familiar bounce of an orange ball reverberates in a court in the middle of the woods; each thump was followed by a loud ring – the sound of the basketball. A boy (the same one introduced a paragraph ago) found an open gap to the basket. An opposing player unfortunately dribbled the ball into his own leg, causing a loose ball. Seeing the opportunity to score for his team, the boy's reflexes initiated, picking up the ball and rushing toward his own basket in one movement. Opportunities to score rarely came for him – his height was the bane for his basketball skills – but he loved the sport, and the opportunity to score even more so.

Three feet away from the basket, he jumped off his left foot for a layup. A routine layup, one the should have softly hit off the box of the backboard and ricocheted into the basket. He extended his right arm, flicking his wrist, the ball rolling off his fingers. And as soon as the ball left his fingers, a foreign hand slapped the ball hard into the trees, like a predating bird swooping in to steal a scavenger's food. The two bodies collided in the air, and the boy's body, being the smaller one, was more affected by momentum. He, too, flew toward the trees, scrapping his elbows along the grass.

"OHHHHHH!" A collective yell emerged from the ten-person crowd in the woods. The teens covered their hands with their mouths, jumping around and exchanging complicated handshakes. Even with Kronos taking over the world and the end of Western Civilization, the response toward completely decimating an opponent on the basketball court never changed: an outburst of joyful chaos.

The boy watched as people gathered around the culprit. And once he got a clear look at who denied his single point of the game (most likely), he retreated into the deepest corners of embarrassment. His shot was blocked by the worst person to have it blocked by.

Little Susie.

Yes, Little Susie, she of the second shortest fourteen-year-old fame, obliterated his layup into the woods, and his already fragile reputation with it. Once the celebration of her block ended, the crowd's attention came to the boy. Still on the ground, wallowing in embarrassment, the crowd erupted in another loud clamor.

"OF COURSE HE GOT BLOCKED BY LITTLE SUSIE!" The laughing snapped the boy back to reality. The basketball court was not the place for depression. He had his tiny bed and the long, somber night for that. For now, he had to retrieve the basketball. Turning toward the direction he thought he saw the orange blur flash, he was stopped in his tracks. Another boy stood, looking a few years older than he. His teeth were framed by thick lips formed in a smile; his rough, ashy hands moved back and forth in a wave; he was everything the boy was not: a person who carried himself well, who believed in his every action without doubt.

"What's up, Michael?" the other boy asked.

"Oh, hey, Kyrie, I was just playing basketball."

After his parents had in a monster attack, Michael and Kyrie grew closer, essentially becoming brothers. The community saw this as an odd pairing – there was such a contrast between the two. One stood at four feet while the other scraped six feet; one was meek and quiet, the other unwavering and loud; one got pulled along into trouble, the other started it. But even with these differences, they stuck together.

Murmurs slithered among the crowd: "Why does he always hang out with him?" "They're both so weird."

"Well, the ball's gone, and they're just standing there. Seems like the game's over. Let's go, Michael." With that, they walked off together into the woods, heading back into the main area of their community. Kyrie always brushed off their peers' insults. There was no point to listening to useless noise.

They walked in silence for a little while. Let me correct that. _Almost_ silence. Michael was huffing and puffing, trying his hardest not to break down. He was a dam filled to the brim – one more drop of water, and everything comes surging out. Then the villagers wake up the next morning looking at their new friend, Mr. Charon, asking for golden drachmas for safe passage.

"Hey, man, don't let them get you down," said Kyrie. "Don't worry what anyone else says. You do you, and you'll accomplish a lot of things."

"I got blocked by Little Suzie."

_Ouch, that's... wow_, he thought. "It's okay, Michael. The NBA probably won't be back any time soon, what with the world takeover and all. You're not really missing out on some great opportunity."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" said Michael.

"The point is," Kyrie said, "You're worrying about something that doesn't need worrying. Look at where we're at, and what we're doing. We move and move and move, never staying at one place for a week, in fear of some monsters. You look up at the sky, and all you're faced with is, well, nothing. It doesn't look like there's anything up there at all. But from what my old man used to tell me, the night sky used to be something beautiful. The moon used to be a source of inspiration for people: 'Shoot for the moon,' they used to say. And apparently, little things called stars used to glitter alongside the moon. And sure enough, people found inspiration in that too. But now, I don't feel anything when I look up.

"But you Michael, even in the face of all this crap, you keep trying. You go back to that court every day, and you keep on trying to get better. That's commendable, dude. If more people were like you, maybe the moon and the stars could light up again, and maybe we can settle at some place for once. So you keep doing you."

Michael stared intently at Kyrie. There he went again with one of his long-winded speeches. But he rather liked them. Something about Kyrie saying them made them feel believable.

"But if you can't keep doing you, you can just try to be me." Kyrie pointed at himself with his thumb. "I'm pretty awesome, after all."

"Alright, Kyrie, I guess I'll listen to you." The smell of something foul tickled Michael's nose. He glanced at Kyrie and saw the slightest sight of a smile. "But dang, man, I won't smell you. How could you, man? I thought we had a rule not to fart around each other!"

"What? That's not me." A flock of birds flew overhead, going the opposite direction they were heading, and a dark smog crawled its way up into the sky. Along with the birds, other creatures fled from the village – deer, squirrels, weasels, and bears even. The fight-or-flight response was activated in all these animals, fleeing away from imminent danger. Michael and Kyrie looked around in wonder at the animals, having never seen a group move so in sync (their community wasn't the most cohesive). However, a snake moved against the grain, heading toward the village. Coincidentally, they stood in its path.

"Run?" said Michael.

"Run." said Kyrie.

As they ran back into the village, they were greeted with a surprising sight. Not a good surprising either, not like going home and finding a bag of unopened Skittles, only to find that the bag is filled with your favorite flavors. This was more like going home and finding some lousy meatloaf, the kind that your mom is proud of and has a note attached, implying how much work she put in. The kind of suffering you have to force yourself through and can't get away from. Flames danced on the tents that they had set up; people lay on the ground, dead and injured. In the middle of the wreckage, a girl stood. Her brunette hair shimmered against the orange light of the flames. Her delicate hands held a not-so-delicate sword that glittered bronze. Her hazel eyes held a crazed look, scanning the area.

Once she caught a sight of Michael and Kyrie, she headed toward them.


End file.
